


I Met You At My Funeral

by orphan_account



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Betty Cooper walked downstairs one morning to see a gathering in her living room, people who she knew and cared about all dressed in black, a dark wooden coffin in front of the fireplace decorated in white roses and tulips. She walked to the front, but nobody seemed to notice her, and despite her voice, growing louder and louder, everyone ignored her, their eyes piercing straight through her. Her gaze then turned to look at the photograph in the flower frame on the stand, only to see her own face, smiling falsely at her.'You stuck here too?" A voice said, to see it was a boy her own age wearing a crowned beanie, transparent and teary-eyed.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Kudos: 3





	I Met You At My Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a book on Wattpad, and then after seeing an AU on Instagram (I can't remember the account but please tell me so I can credit them here), I decided to write a book about it. I hope you enjoy. - Gracie :)

**Jughead**

I remember waking up that horrible morning, feeling a little faint however I assumed it was morning grogginess. My legs felt almost transparent, like they weren't really there, and my whole body had a unique numb sensation that was near to impossible to describe. My arms felt almost detached, yet I still was able to control them with ease, and this morning I'd refrained from looking in the mirror since I dreaded to see what state I looked in. I was expecting to find my hair a ruffled mess or my face a tinted grey, or maybe even my clothes twisted and ridden up from a rough nights sleep. However, as I sat down at the table and went to eat whatever my dad had left on the table, the food stung me, sending miniature electrical shocks through my body, a tingling remaining around the area the toast had gone through me. This, at that moment, confused more than anything had done before, and I looked down at my hands and I stared at them hard and intensely. I could see the table and the floor through them, a greyened shade through my ghostly arm, and I dropped the bread instantly, a feeling of being choked suffocating my neck, but I could still breathe, or not breathe, but it didn't feel like I wasn't. It turns out I was immune to pain, and I could force myself through objects, however it did hurt and sting a little (though it became more and more bearable over time). If I concentrated and thought hard enough, I could after objects like any human could, such as lift up a knife or open a door, and then, after many weeks I learned I could influence objects with my mind, like a supernatural force, but that was how a ghost became tired and drained, sleep being the only way to replenish that energy. When looking in a mirror or anything image reflective, I saw nothing at first, but the longer I stared, the more my form began to appear, but by the time I saw myself I'd grown impatient, and I later learned that I appeared quicker when I heard more of that supernatural energy. But what I am yet to understand and what I am currently trying to figure out is why I'm trapped in limbo. I found a fellow ghost that day I discovered my new spiritual form, an elderly man sat in an empty waiting room in Riverdale General Hospital, staring into a room opposite.   
"You're new here?" his saddened voice asked me, but his eyes kept staring into the room, a tear falling down his cheek, however it feel and hit the plastic seat rather than his lap.   
"I- I don't understand, h- how can you tell? What- what even is this?" My voice was shaky, but yet it was effortless to speak, my voice not croaky or sore, but almost velvety - if I was deaf, I wouldn't even be able to feel that I was speaking.   
"I am waiting for my wife," his frail voice croaked, "But she won't experience limbo for longer than a day, her death is from cancer you see. I must wait for my killer's death; I have tried to avenge myself already, a waste of time I tell you."  
I wanted to ask more, query about this whole unknown situation. But he rose from his seat as a ring sounded, the long beep of a dead heartbeat before walking away, meeting with doctors as they wheeled a sheet-covered body from the room, his hand sinking through the material to touch hers. Her spirit body, wrinkled and fragile, rise from the bed and she smiled at her husband, reuniting in this somewhat purgatory. My heart melted, and I decided not to follow and purse him for more information. There was nobody else there that was willing to talk to me, they only scurried away or spat a hurtful comment out of their own depressed bitterness. So I gave up and learned everything for myself. 

**Betty**

The sun was blinding, I must've forgotten to close my curtains before I went to sleep. I sat up, yawning loudly as my eyes adjusted to the light - I was expecting them to hurt a little as the sun beamed at them, but I felt no aching or slight pain whatsoever. As I came around, there was dull music playing from downstairs, and what sounded like sniffling and whimpering. I was so confused, _what was happening?_ I swung my legs over the side of the bed and slid out, throwing the duvet over to the other side, my legs exposed suddenly to the cold air. As I opened my door and crept around to the top of the stairs, peering around the banister, I heard the music, a familiar song that held a special place in my heart playing on the small speakers, and then, I saw the crowd of people in the living room, many on seats and some standing. I recognised every face, and I was sure I was dreaming again, except a followup of the one prior where I was murdered by my friend. But it felt so real, each sense so distinct yet so easy - almost too easy. Nonetheless, I continued down the stairs, expecting someone to turn around and see me, almost to tell me to be quiet. But nobody did. I looked at Ethel who was stood at the very back, but she didn't notice me, not even when I waved my hand over her face. _Okay, definitely dreaming_. So, I simply walked to the front, and I was half expecting a voice to hiss my name, or for someone to tug at my sleeve and tell me to sit down in the middle of the service. It was a funeral, I knew that for sure: the outfits were black, many people were crying and dabbing their eyes with already soaked tissues, and my family were at the front, listening to a poem read allowed by Cheryl, her sad confidence flooding the room. She was choking on her words, and I was trying to understand the words she was saying - it sounded familiar, and then it hit me. It was my poem. I wrote it. It was about the afterlife, and how painless it was, and how happy you felt, and how easy life was for you despite the hurting your friends and family was feeling. This was by far the most unusual dream I've ever had, second after the once before where I was shot point blank in the head by my friend - well, I wasn't exactly sure who it was, but for some reason I knew it was someone close to me, someone I considered as a trustworthy and safe friend. I didn't want to wake up, but this felt to weird for my liking: it felt too real, and I knew I wouldn't be able to get this dream out of my head - it would distract me of school the next day.  
"This service is much better than what mine was." The voice startled me, causing me to jump abruptly. I turned to face him, only to see a boy my age, a crowned beanie of his messy hair, wearing an affordable suit, no tie and his blazer not buttoned up like everyone else's. He was the only face I did not recognise, and I wondered why he was appearing in my dream.   
"I don't understand... do I know you?" I asked him, stood in the middle of the ceremony, facing him as he walked through the people, subtly wincing as he came.   
He was hesitant to answer, "Sorry, no. I- I uh, kinda crash funerals. Something to do, compare them all y'know." He looked around him, pursing his lips and inhaling heavily. "These people really seemed to love you, your ceremony seems so much more personal and heartfelt."  
Wait, _what_? Did I just hear him right? _My funeral?_ "My ceremony?"  
Instead of answering, her lifted his finger to point at a picture resting on the coffin in front of the fireplace, the frame of it white roses and faded pink tulips with a school photograph, the blond teenage girl smiling fakely for the camera as the blinding light shot as the picture snapped. It was me. It was me. How could have I been so oblivious?   
"Please just tell me I'm dreaming, right?" I needed that clarification, even though I knew it was. But he didn't answer, and it made me on edge. He bit his lip, looking down at the floor with his stands stuffed in his trouser pockets. I waited for him to reply, but I was waiting for longer than what I wanted. I was desperate for that confirmation, just to put my mind at ease.  
Eventually, he shook his head, "You're not dreaming," _He's lying..._ "You died, Betty. You're dead."

I woke up, laying atop the sheets of my bed, and seeing that familiar ceiling above my head, I exhaled heavily with relief. For a few moments, I just lay there, being thankful that those dreams were just that, and I marvelled at how real they felt and how I almost believed they were reality. My mind then questioned who that boy was, the one I didn't recognise.   
"Finally, you're awake."   
The voice caused me to leap from my bed, jolt upright and my heart thudded in my chest. _Nooo,_ _not his voice._ It was the sound I wanted to hear least at this moment in time. Hesitantly I turned my head, and when I saw his ghost frame laying on the bed, it made my body freeze. It finally sunk in - I was dead, this was real. I yearned for answers, but my voice wouldn't work. It didn't hurt however, just there was no sound. He smiled sympathetically, waiting for me to speak. He was oddly patient, and I wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting for me to wake.   
"I- I don't understand." I finally forced out.   
"Neither did I," he obviously didn't want to say whatever he was thinking next, but my pressuring eyes gave him no choice, "You're a ghost Betty. You're stuck in limbo. And you stay in limbo until the cause of your death is dead, in your case, your murderer."  
I'd never been one to believe in ghosts, the tales we once told at the summer camps when I was in middle school simply just jokes to me - never would I have imagined that it could've been real. Once I'd questioned what it would've been like to visit my own funeral, but that was when I was old and grey, my skin sagged and my life lived; now, seeing my own funeral as a teenage girl, barely making her eighteenth birthday, it hit me how much I won't get to live. I didn't understand, not one bit. The aspect of life after death was just myths to me, all of it - heaven, hell, reincarnation and ghosts. False, or so I believed.   
"Can you explain?" my voice was sheepish and quieter than I thought, but he understood perfectly. He nodded once as he rose from my bed, his movements having a sense of flowing, almost like he was made of silk. And I must've been staring a few seconds too long as a smirk tugged at his lips when my eyes met his. His head gestured to the window, which was already open a little, letting air flow through and elegantly pushing the curtains smoothly. After seeing me sitting unmoving, my eyebrows raised, he held out his hand and twitched his fingers, wanting me to come with him.  
"Well? You can come with me now and I'll explain it all, or you can go sit at your own funeral." He chuckled, and despite my pulsing curiosity to see what people were saying about me now that my life with them was over, I needed to know what this new one was, and for some unexplainable reason I felt safe with him. So, I reached out my hand and took hold of his, letting him lead me to the window, and, with his other free hand, he opened it up the whole way and placed his feet on the edge of the ledge, pulling me gently to his side. "I'm Jughead, by the way." 


End file.
